


On Gaslit Nights

by RhymesoftheRenegades



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Gotham by Gaslight (2018)
Genre: Family, In character fluff, Steampunk gadgets, Working title, crime fighters in training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-01-06 17:53:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18393419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhymesoftheRenegades/pseuds/RhymesoftheRenegades
Summary: Surviving on the filthy and foggy streets of Gotham is a dangerous life. Growing up in Wayne Manor might make that seem easy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When your new father isn't just a stranger, and he's also a vigilante.

**Well I saw Gotham By Gaslight a few days ago, and it's my new favorite Batman movie. So I'm starting up a little series of ones-shots, loosely connected, revolving around steampunk Batman and his friends. Most of it will focus on the relationship between him and his three new wards, eventual sidekicks. One of my favorite parts of the movie! And how fortuitous I got my muse triggered just after Batman's 80 th birthday.**

 

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

 

“Mu-nick,” Tim rolled the word around, testing the limited phonetics of his recently expanding vocabulary. He traced his finger across the page, marking each city as he tried to read their names. “Zerick, boudapist, stokehome-”

“SHIT!”

Tim looked up from his seat next to the wall, making sure one of his brothers hadn't killed the other. The large room in the basement of Wayne Manor had once been a massive wine cellar; left by some previous Wayne who'd had a passion for distillery. You could still smell it, even after the current Wayne sold off most of the hoard of drinks and moved the rest to smaller cellars. In it's place he'd created one of the most well equipped gymnasiums in the state, and probably the largest to be privately owned. With a considerably wider range of weaponry than any other too.

Inside the ropes of a large fighting ring, Dick leaned heavily on his quarterstaff, rubbing one foot. “Damn it Jason! This ain’t no real fight!”

The red-headed boy smirked as he bounced his own staff in one hand. “What's the matter Dickie? Fancy living got you going soft already?”

Dick turned away as he kept balancing on one foot. “Don't start talkin yourself up too quick. Fightin here in a ring ain't all that different from the street, let your guard down for one minute an you'll feel the hur-”

Grinning from ear to ear, Jason chose that moment to jump forward and deliver the final blow to his brothers exposed backside.

And an instant before his blow hit, Dick pivoted on his supposedly injured foot, jabbing his own staff into his opponents stomach. Jason went down in mid-leap, wide eyed and making an unusual wheezing noise as all the air went out of him and his staff rolled away.

“Well, I think that shows who's going soft,” Dick smirked. “Or maybe not, you was always too quick to go jumping into rat-pits without looking.”

Tim turned back to his book, not overly concerned about his brothers hurting each other. Just a few days ago he'd also knocked Jason flat, and accidentally given him a black-eye, when he saw an opening and took it without thinking. He'd been ready to go running to get Mr. Pennyworth to call a doctor, but when Jason got back up he was so proud he'd nearly knocked his younger brother over patting him on the back.

Jason looked a lot less happy this time, as he struggled to sit and rubbed his sore stomach. “Laugh while you can Dickie. But how bout we try it bare-handed next, see if you ain't afraid to go dirtying those clean nails.”

“You two might want to put some work into your studying too,” Tim had just wandered down from the library a few minutes ago, where he'd spent most of the night. “Professor Nygma is coming by for lessons tomorrow.”

“Aw we can learn all that stuff later,” Jason, whose interest in education began and ended with literature, brushed the idea away. “More important we learn all this chinamen fighting Mr. Wayne uses!”

“Why's that important?”

“So we'll be ready when we go out with The Bat,” Jason said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You know, clean up the streets and all that.”

“I not so sure Mr. Wayne is going to let us do that,” Tim shook his head. “The whole point of taking us in was to get us _out_ of Gotham.”

“Maybe we don't ask permission,” Jason shrugged nonchalantly. “It's not like he got anyone's leave to go making himself the law. Besides,” he looped his foot under the staff and kicked it up into his hand. “I don't know about you, but I got a few scores I never settled. Few crooks out there that shouldn't be walking around anymore.”

“Not sure I'd put it that way, but he's got a point Tim,” Dick nodded. “We all ended up on the street cause of men like the ones Mr. Wayne goes after. Maybe if we can give him a little help, a few less kids end up like we were.”

“I'd like to help,” Tim insisted. “But how much can kids like us do? I don't even know how Mr. Wayne does it.” The boy glanced worryingly at the clock. “Honest, there's a lot of nights I worry he ain’t gonna make it back come morning!”

“Don't sweat it Timmy,” Jason put an arm around his little brother. “Big Bill Dusk went up against The Bat and never even got a hit on him. And he took out The Ripper, he was as bloodthirsty as they come! Ain't no-one out there gonna get one over on him!”

“Well said master Jason!” The three boys looked up in surprise, noticing the Wayne butler standing in the doorway for the first time. “But before you three can tackle the rogues of Gotham, there will be an arithmetic tutor here tomorrow. And you had best be getting to bed about now if you are going to meet that challenge.”

“Before Mr. Wayne get's back,” Dick looked toward the late hour of the clock. “He's going out again tonight, ain't he?”

For a moment the Mr. Pennyworth looked like he couldn't decide how he should reply, then he nodded curtly. “Yes, he will be out on a case, one which should take up most of the night. Although 'ain’t' is not actually a soldier in the army of the queen's English.”

“What's it this time,” Jason asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “That fancy birdman? Another ladykiller?”

“Nothing so lethal,” the butler assured them. “Merely a string of unusual robberies. The police have no leads.”

“Unusual how?” Tim asked.

“I believe master Bruce mentioned a suspicion that it was a chap who was skilled in impersonation.”

Jason cocked his head. “You mean, he dresses up as people.?”

“And copies their faces, to exact detail.”

That brought the three boys up short a second, before the red head asked. “How?”

“I haven't the foggiest idea,” The englishman turned, motioning the boys to follow. “I'm sure he can fill you in on all the skulky details; though good marks on arithmetic would smooth that along.”

“Alright, you ain- don't have to coddle us.” Dick placed his staff back in it's rack on the wall, as he an the other boys followed the manservant out of the room. “See you tomorrow mister Pennyworth.”

“Alfred,” he corrected gently. Both of their new guardians insisted on establishing a first name basis with them, but the boys weren't quite ready for that. “And a good nights sleep to all of you.”

With a few grumbles about bed times and the morning's promise of schooling, mostly from Jason, the three wards retired for the evening. Still half amazed by the newfound luxuries fate had given them they each dipped into the baths Mr. Pennyworth had drawn, powdered their teeth, and climbed into large, warm beds. Dick and Jason were both asleep within a half hour, their rooms still and quiet as they snored away the exertions of their training. Tim slept a bit more fretfully.

With his door cracked open, the youngest boy lapsed in and out of wakefulness several times; until the early hours of the morning when he at last heard the heavy footsteps he'd been waiting for. Nestling farther under the soft covers, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep as Mr. Wayne quietly swung his door open to peer at him. Tim wasn't sure if the others knew, but Mr. Wayne had made a habit of checking in on them all whenever he came back from his adventures at night. Sometimes the youngest boy couldn't sleep at all till he'd been by.

 

**Well there's the start. I don't have the deepest familiarity with Batman lore, so you'll have to tell me if I got their personalities right. Not sure how many shots this will go on or how frequently I'll update;my muse is kind of unreliable.**

 

**It helps it you REVIEW!!! I might also except prompt ideas!**

 


	2. Breakfast is Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone in the Manor is adapting to a new schedule.

**I don't think I've ever got a second chapter up this fast. Of course, it's shorter than my other works.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

 

Life was always fairly free and loose on the street. You didn't plan more than a couple days ahead (surviving the day you were in was hard enough) and you didn't follow a very tight schedule. If you were late for a meeting because you had to take the long way to avoid some coppers on patrol, it was unavoidable. If you found some decent grub, you ate it onsite before someone else took a liking to it.

Wayne Manor wasn't like the street.

For one thing, when something was scheduled at a certain time, you were expected to _be_ there. And swiping food when no one was looking was frowned upon. There were _meals_ for that; which not only had to be at a certain time and place, but couldn't start until everyone was there.

Bruce Wayne was the last to make it down to breakfast this particular morning. He was only a few minutes late, but it seemed like an eternity for his three wards. It took all they had not to dig into the platters of bacon and eggs; common portions in the Manor that would have been a feast on Gotham's streets.

Looking like he just thrown on his waist coat, Mr. Wayne strode into the room with a smile and friendly nod ready for them all. These couldn't hide the dark rings under his eyes, or the stifled yawns.

“Must have only got an hour or two of shut-eye,” Jason whispered to Tim, only to get a glare and a quiet _shush_ for his troubles.

Their guardians breakfast was a bit more restrained. A few strips of bacon accompanied an omelet that had as much vegetable as it did egg. Following his tea he washed the meal down with a strange drink, made by Mr. Pennyworth to an exact recipe. It looked like thick pea soup that had almost spoiled. Mr. Wayne had a cup of it every day, and explained it only as a “drink for health” which he'd gotten from some eastern monks.

The boys had a running dare to try it, but none of them had worked up the courage yet.

“I was sorry to leave you all so abruptly last night,” Mr. Wayne said as they all began digging in. “Some business came up.”

“Was it a robbery?” For some reason Mr. Wayne seemed reluctant to talk about anything to do with The Bat to them, but Tim couldn't help himself.

Mr. Wayne looked up warily, as he cut into his omelet “A kidnapping,” he finally said. “The details are somewhat private for the victims involved.”

“Id ou fnd hm,” Jason asked around a mouthful of bacon.

Mr. Wayne's brow furrowed, his mind still foggy with sleep. “Ah, um, yes, they were caught. No one was injured seriously.”

“A good show then,” Mr. Pennyworth pushed his way through the swinging kitchen doors with a fresh platter of bacon. “Speaking of shows, I believe you mentioned something about taking the boys to the baseball field this weekend. A nice activity for you all to do _together_.” He looked pointedly at his employer.

“Yes,” Mr. Wayne picked up on the cue. “I believe I'll be free this Saturday, and the Metropolis Monarchs will be in town to play the Knights. It should be a go-,” A yawn escaped him. “Good matchup.”

“So you follow the league a lot,” Dick asked as Mr. Pennyworth returned to the kitchen.

The millionaire shook his head absentmindedly. “I haven't seen any sign of League activity since I got back to the States.” He noticed their confused expressions. “Oh, you mean . . . I don't really follow teams outside of Gotham, no.”

“Well I'd love to go,” Dick answered “We've never gotten to go to a ball game before.”

“He means we never _paid_ to get into a game,” Jason commented.

No reply came.

Bruce Wayne sat with head down, hands in his lap. Still as a statue, except for the rise and fall of his broad chest.

“Must have been a chase,” Dick mused quietly. “To get him so worn out.”

“You'd think the crooks would learn,” Jason chuckled.

Mr. Pennyworth pushed his way through the door with a fresh teapot, and didn't look at all surprised. He quietly refilled his employers cup and departed on soft feet.

With a sly grin, Jason jumped from his seat and scampered quietly over to the fire place. Cold ashes from the night before lay inside, and the boy surveyed it till he spotted a small thin stick that had survived. He ran it lightly over his palm and nodded with satisfaction at the faint grey line it left, brandishing it as he turned and crept toward their sleeping guardian.

“Jason,” Dick hissed quietly. “You idiot, what are you doing!”

“I was just thinkin to myself the other day, Mr. Wayne would look pretty smart with a mustache,” the boy sniggered. “And what crook wouldn't turn and run at the sight of mutton chops.”

“I don't think Mr. Wayne would agree,” Tim cautioned, even as he fought down a smile.

Jason crept up as quietly as he ever had on the cobblestones of Gotham. Kicking his shoes off he climbed up onto the polished table, and leaned in toward the sleeping millionaire. He almost made it, when his foot brushed against the empty tea cup and it _clink_ ed slightly

In an instant Mr. Wayne was awake; his head started upright and his hand shot up to grab Jason's outstretched arm by the wrist. He shook his head gently, blinking several times, and only then seemed to notice the young ward in his iron grip. He gently plucked the ash stick out of the boys grip, fixing him with just a fraction of his powerful glare.

The boy smiled in a sheepish and resigned way. “So do I go cut my own switch, or does Mr. Pennyworth do that for us too?”

**Practicing my character writing here.**

**REVIEW!!! I might also except prompt ideas!**

 

 


	3. A Familiar Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason causes Bruce the first of many, many headaches.

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

There were a couple suits standing at the door, ready to open it for the gala's guests. Must be some rule that the quality couldn't touch doorknobs themselves unless they were solid gold.

Mr. Wayne handed his coat over to another servant, and strolled into the room, nodding discretely at Jason to stay at his side. This was his first time coming out with Mr. Wayne to one of these society shindigs. Well, there was that Wayne industries charity ball, but he'd had Dick and Tim with him then. He wasn't too worried though; he'd survived the Narrows gangs after all, no one here could be worse then them.

“Bruce, fashionably late as always,” a man detached himself from the crowd, and went right up to them, grabbing Mr. Wayne's hand and pumping it like an old friend. He had a thin mustache, and a smile that was a little greasy. But their was something in his eyes that didn't match; anger, or maybe fear.

“Harvey,” Mr. Wayne nodded stonily and took his hand back. “I'm glad to see you found time away from the D.A.'s office to join in the festivities.” He didn't sound that glad, until he put a hand on Jason's shoulder. “And may I present my ward, Jason Todd.”

So this was the tosser who tried to nail Mr. Wayne as The Ripper, and send him away to Blackgate. Jason padded one hand into his pocket, where his knife would have been if Mr. Pennyworth hadn't checked him before they left. On the street, when someone tried to stick you, you stuck them right back. Among the quality, you it seemed you still had to shake hands and smile when you met at dinner. This might be the only time when he preferred the street.

Mr. Dent was all smiles for a guy who'd tried to put a friend of his in the pen for life. “A pleasure to meet you young man. And while I have you two, there's someone here you simply must meet.” The man was talking fast, as if trying to stop them from getting away. He was like a guy who'd tumbled down a hill, and was trying to crawl back to the top. He gestured toward the middle of the room; at a grey haired man, with a girl at his side that who's hair was so blond it was almost white. “A mister Joseph Wilson.”

Mr. Wayne's expression gave in a bit, slipping into actual interest. “Wilson? That name does sound familiar.”

“He gained some notoriety during the war, as an officer in the Confederate cavalry. One of general Stuart's right-hand men apparently. These days he's engaged in some obscure foreign businesses, but has really made a name for himself as a sportsmen. A real charmer when he want's to be but apparently has a reputation for being a, _eh_ , “scoundrel-gentleman” if you know what I mean.” Dent gave him a big smile and a wink, like they were sharing some inside joke, but Mr. Wayne wasn't warming up to him. But it must have been some society rule, because he led the attorney lead them over.

Joseph Wilson didn't look like your average Gotham blue-blood. He was a big man, almost as tall as Mr. Wayne, though not quite as broad. His nose had a crook that looked like it had been broken at least once and not set right, and he met everyone in the room with a smile that looked like it was always about to turn into a sneer. Jason saw him shake hands with someone ahead from them, and noticed the man squirm slightly and draw his hand back quickly. Apparently this Wilson was one of those buggers who liked to get one on people as soon as they met.

“Let me introduce you,” Mr. Dent ushered them forward before either could protest. “Joseph Wilson,” he called as the other man turned toward them. “Meet Bruce Wayne.”

“Ah, the famous prince of Gotham,” the man's voice dripped honey. “This is a rare pleasure sir.” But his smile faltered as they shook, and Mr. Wayne grip met his with equal firmness. They held hands for a moment too long, until southerner gave up with as much pride as he could muster.

Jason smirked a little more than high-standards probably allowed.

“May I also introduce my daughter,” Mr. Wilson gestured toward the girl at his side. “Rose Wilson.”

“Young lady,” Mr. Wayne casually doffed his hat with a smile that could charm a harpy. “And may I introduce my young ward, Jason Todd.”

The girl extended a hand. “Delighted, I'm sure.” She had an air about her that Jason had seen of girls before; one that said she could be as friendly as a kitten if she liked you, but mean as an alley cat if you crossed her.

“Pleasure's mine,” he put on his best posh manners, taking her hand and bending over it a little, just like Mr. Pennyworth instructed, remembering not to kiss it like they always showed in pennydramas. “And welcome to Gotham.” There was something very familiar about her, maybe the hair? She squinted at him slightly, like she recognized him too.

Meanwhile, the adults were talking.

“Have you ever been to Gotham before Wr. Wilson,” Mr. Wayne asked?

“Oh, a few times over the years,” the old soldier replied. “My businesses take me here and there quite often. My last visit to Gotham was about eight months ago, the first time Rose here got to come.”

“Yes,” the girl was still smiling, but something bitter crept into her tone. “It was wonderful to finally visit this great city, it's such a _lively_ place.”

Suddenly, Jason remembered where he'd seen that hair before, and he had to force his mouth back closed.

“HEY,” he was a little louder than he meant to be. “Isn't that Mr. Fox?” He pointed over at the Wayne Industries inventor he'd spotted talking to someone on the opposite side of the room.

“It is indeed,” Mr. Wayne replied in a questioning tone.

“Well lets go talk to him,” Jason grabbed him by the hand and tugged him away, which probably wasn't proper etiquette. “I wanted to hear more about that phantom scale you were saying he made the other night.”

“Phantoscope,” his guardian corrected.

“Yah that thing, I wanted to hear more about it!”

A phantoscope turned out to be a machine for making moving pictures, and couldn't be used in a séance, as Jason had hoped. He had to spend the next half hour paying attention during a lot of gizmo talk that little Timmy probably could've understood better than him, but he figured it was worth it.

But unfortunately that wasn't the end, as he found out later when the other blue-bloods left them alone at their table for a few minutes. He had put Mr. Wilson and his daughter out of mind, and was eating his way through “hors d'oeuvres,” which was a thing where the rich apparently had so much food in one meal they started with a poor mans portion and worked their way up.

“So, Jason,” Mr. Wayne suddenly asked. “You seemed a little tense earlier. And something tells me it isn't just the fancy company?”

The boy weight his options carefully, glanced up at his guardian, who spent his spare time worming the truth out of loons and cutthroats, and decided to play straight “Well, it's that girl you see,” he drummed his fingers on the table, lowering his gaze to the table.

Bruce gave the boy his full attention, genuinely curious about where this was going. He managed to limit his visible reaction to a lifting of an eyebrow.

“I think I might have robbed her.”

Bruce's expression went flat, and only his rigid self-discipline kept him from making an outburst that would draw the whole rooms attention. “What?”

“Back when I was on the street, yah know,” Jason reassured him hurriedly. “Eight month back, like she said. Sometimes posh kids would go slum it in the Narrows; see how _exciting_ it was to be poor as dirt. I just gave em the full Gotham experience.” He raised his hands and shrugged. “I probably did em a favor, scared em back home before they ran into someone _real_ nasty.”

Bruce suppressed a groan, kneading fingers between his eyebrows. It was tempting to say something about this being an example of the unforeseen but fitting consequences of the criminal lifestyle, but he decided against it. Jason was moving on from his past, slowly but surely, and some heavy-handed lecturing wasn't likely to speed things up.

“Do you think she might recognize you,” he asked evenly.

“Don't think so,” he shook his head. “It was dark, and I was a lot dirtier back then. Wore my hair longer too.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t seem very likely,” Bruce said hopefully. “And you might actually be mistaken, and it was some other poor girl.”

“Don't feel too sorry for her,” Jason insisted, indicating to a scare on the back of his hand. “The doxy bit me so hard she drew blood! You can get all kinds of pox from just a little cut in the Narrows.”

Mr. Wayne didn't look impressed. “What did you take from her?”

“A gold necklace,” Jason shrugged. “She should'a known better than to wear it dallying on the street anyway. And it fed us for two weeks, which is more important than anything _she_ was gonna do with it.” He smiled as a thought occurred to him. “Hey, you could just let me buy her a new one. Your pocket money would probably cover it!”

Bruce resisted the urge to toll his eyes. “I don't think we could come up with a pretense that didn't seem odd.”

“Maybe we just avoid the Wilson's then, whenever they're in town,” Jason shrugged.

“Bruce,” the man himself suddenly materialized out of the crowd. Thumping the millionaire on the back a little too hard. “If you can send your boy home, some of use gents were going to retire to the billiards room after the party. Found ourselves in the mood for some more, eh, _active_ entertainment.” He kept his hand on Mr. Wayne's shoulder a little too long, like a street challenge.

Mr. Wayne shrugged him off. “Tempting, but I have already made plans for a private commitment after this.”

“Ah, I've heard a few rumors about your _private_ engagements,” Mr. Wilson winked and laughed heartily. “Please, don't allow me to ruin your evening!”

In fact, Mr. Wayne had invited Miss Kyle for dinner at the townhouse they were staying in, after she returned from her trip to Bludhaven. The boys eagerly asked her for a few private performances, and it was expected she would stay the night. Bruce had to excuse himself early, however, when a masked and sword wielding assassin tried to kill a city judge. The Bat managed to save the judge's life, but the assassin got away.

 

**Couldn't quite make up my mind about the perspective for this one. But tell me what you thought!**

 


	4. The Riddle Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim spends a relaxing afternoon bonding with his guardian.

**First update in a while, hopefully the next one comes sooner. I'm trying something new with a longer chapter with more of a plot, to see if that will work for future updates.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

Tim tugged nervously at his tie, half wishing he could have come by himself, as a steady stream of high society types carefully inserted themselves in to talk to Mr. Wayne, like some well practiced dance. Tim could feel gazes sweeping over his guardian from all across the room; the prince of Gotham, recent adopted guardian of three orphans, who still hadn't quite put to bed the accusations made against him. Maybe he would have been better off going to the races with his brothers and Mr. Pennyworth, but this had sounded like such a fun time when he heard about it. The Gotham University Symposium of the Sciences was supposed to be the a meeting of some of the greatest minds in the city, and he'd wanted to see it. And being a benefactor of the university (as he was with about half of all Gotham) their guardian could get an invitation on command.

"It really is a pleasure that you could come Mr. Wayne," said a Mr. Nyles, one of the deans of the university. "and I hope your little ward here seriously considers attending our great university in a few years." He was a friendly enough person, but he seemed a bit, well the polite term was _pompous_.

"I was somewhat surprised that they decided to go ahead with symposium, actually," Mr. Wayne let his concern show. "In light of . . . recent events."

By "recent events" he was referring to the sudden emergence of a new criminal in Gotham. An anonymous villain, whom the press were deeming the Riddle Man.

No one knew who the man was, or what he wanted. His crimes hadn't even been that heinous at first, just a string of high profile robberies. Several masterpieces had been stolen from the Gotham Museum of Art, and roughly a ton of gold bullion from the Gotham National Bank. What was strange about this thief was that he left riddles everywhere he went. At the museum he left a series of clues as to where the pieces had been stashed after their theft, and at the bank he challenged the authorities to deduce _how_ he'd cracked a safe and walked out with the gold during daylight hours.

The boys had been keeping up with the news with interest, and pestering Mr. Wayne about any leads he might have.

But the Riddle Man's most recent attacks had been different. A man in Crest Hill had been kidnapped during the night and left on a ledge several stories above the ground, with a complicated locking mechanism blocking the window that was his only way back inside. Another had been abducted and placed in a locked room; and challenged to try and escape, through various potentially lethal tasks. Both men had been recovered alive in the end, but their harrowing experiences had the city in a fervor. And the only thing they had in common, was that they were both board members of Gotham University.

The Bat had been out most nights for a week now, hunting the man. Last night Mr. Wayne hadn't even made it back to the house, but checked into this very hotel in the early hours of the morning and slept until Mr. Pennyworth brought Tim at noon.

"Hmph," Mr. Nyles waved a hand derisively, brushing off his concerns. "Yes, the papers do seem to be making this newest crackpot into the next Ripper. But I wouldn't be concerned. These degenerates might run around playing outlaw in the alleys at night, but one of them could never be so foolish as to try something _here._ We're practically in the heart of Burnley, where folk know how to be civilized."

"Actually, I was under the impression that the culprit most likely came from one of the upper classes," Mr. Wayne insisted. "His attack at the museum and his abductions of the two board members suggest a higher education."

"Well, I'm not going to play detective myself," the man harrumphed "Still, can't let these criminal types disrupt the daily life of this city. Now if you will excuse me, I believe my wife has the right idea," he gestured across the room to a fancy hatted woman perusing the buffet table.

Finally free of the man, Mr. Wayne allowed himself a yawn. "The cities elite don't seem to be very disturbed by the recent trouble," he raised an eyebrow almost jokingly at his ward. "How very _admirable_ of them."

Tim almost said something about how growing up with too much money made people as soft in the head as it did in the body, then he remembered who he was talking to. "They're probably right though," he whispered quietly to his guardian. "About the Riddle Man not coming here. Dick and Jason didn't take us into Burnley a lot, and not for very long. Too many cops paroling all the time, and if you ain- _don't_ have some good duds and the right, walk you stand out pretty easily." Again, he tugged at the tie, then realized he was fidgeting and stood up a little straighter.

"Nervous," Mr. Wayne raised his eyebrows and spoke quietly. "There's no need to be."

"A lot of the kids here were studying latin when my biggest education was learning to pot an easy mark," Tim shook his head. "I'm gonna make myself look like a Skinner's End Johnny, I just know it!"

"If it helps, I don't think anyone here has ever been to Skinner's End to know a local if they saw one," his guardian tried to make light of his worries. "And your teacher's tell me you're making very swift progress in catching up in your own studies. If I were a betting man, I think I'd match your mind against any other boy in this room."

"You wouldn't be alone Mr. Wayne," a man approached them from the side. "And I should know, having taught most of the them."

Tim couldn't stop the smile that broke out over his face, as he greeted one of his favorite people in Gotham. "Hello Mr. Nygma."

Edward Nygma was widely recognized as one of the brightest minds in the city. Though he came from a humble family of bookkeepers, his relentless intelligence had seen him become Gotham Universities foremost mathematician, and a favorite tutor for many of Gotham's elite families. Mr. Wayne had hired him for the private education of his new wards, on the recommendation of their mutual acquaintance Mr. Fox.

The man could be described as _animated_ , with an almost childlike energy behind even his simple movements. He was dressed particularly _flamboyantly_ today, (sometimes when Jason was in the library reading Poe, Tim would join him and just browse anything he picked off the shelves; the dictionary was one of his favorites) in a bright green suit with a black bowler hat sitting at a jaunty angle.

"It's nice to see you professor," Mr. Wayne shook his hand with a smile. "I am sorry I haven't been able to meet with you personally very often, my business demands much of my time you understand."

"Of course, of course," Mr. Nygma brushed off his apology. "And with no offense, I'm not sure your boys' progress would be better for it anyway," he leaned toward Tim. "Indulge me, will you lad? The north Atlantic bird known as the great auk lays a single egg every year. It takes three years for an infant auk to reach reproductive age, and also breed. Now two thousand auks were hunted from St. Kilda island this year; leaving two hundred and eighty two healthy adults, half of them female. A further sixty-two auks are hunted every year after, and they die naturally at the age of fourteen. How many birds will the island have in twenty years?"

Tim scratched his head. "Isn't the great auk extinct?"

"Correct sir," Mr. Nygma doffed his hat and bowed _theatrically_ to the boy. "You are officially in my top tier of students. And the answer, if you wanted it, is two thousand one hundred and eighty nine."

"Sharp as always Mr. Nygma," Mr. Wayne nodded. "I hear you're going to be the master of ceremonies for this event."

"Yes, a true pleasure," but the smile turned down on Mr. Nygma's lips. "A most _gracious_ consolation prize, from the university board."

Mr. Wayne smiled sympathetically. "I was sorry to hear about the board's decision to pass you over for the position of executive vice president."

"That is good of you Mr. Wayne," the professor smiled sadly. "Though I can hardly say the board's choice was a surprise."

Mr. Wayne nodded, apologetically. "Dr. Long does has had a long-standing tenure as-"

"Let us not insist on politely false ignorance, Mr. Wayne," Professor Nygma shook his head. "The good doctor's qualifications are more in the area of family connections, not in intellectual prowess."

"The importance of such associations does seem to be unfortunately prevalent in our city, I'll grant you," Mr. Wayne agreed. "Though I am sure that with time your excellent work will be recog-,"

"I have already given years of such service to the schools of Gotham," the man's voice was hard, his face a bitter sneer. "And only seen lesser minds elevated above me as a reward." He looked down at Tim. "Tell me young master, what person would you say this describes?

Who's steps fall off the clear marked path

Who wears no hat in snow or rain

Who spends his pockets dry of cash

Who, for a scornful beauty, longs in vain?"

"Um," Tim considered it for a moment. "A blind man?"

Professor Nygma smiled humorlessly. "A good guess. The answer I was looking for was a fool."

Mr. Wayne was about to say something, when the other man waved his hand dismissively "But, it is discourteous of me to pile my own troubles onto you worthy gentlemen. Please, go and enjoy yourselves," with a tip of his hat he departed into the crowd. "I have a few last minute things to prepare before this little show starts."

Tim shifted awkwardly on his feet, feeling he should have thought of something reassuring to say. A quick glance up at his guardian, and he saw the man's face was thoughtful and narrow eyed, following Mr. Nygma across the room until another high society couple came up to them.

For the next half hour there was little time for his thoughts to focus on anything other than not embarrassing himself in conversation. It was significantly easier when they talked to someone who was in attendance because they actually knew something about the topics to be discussed, and Tim felt himself being drawn in rather than playing a part. Unfortunately, that was the minority in the room.

A welcome break came when the start of the symposium drew near and the guests began taking their seats; and the others at their table left to graze the buffet one last time. "Looks like the first topic is some new kind of locomotive their making in Austria," Tim looked over their bulletin. "Did you see any trains like that when you were in Europe?"

His guardian didn't reply, but with chin rested in one palm stared absentmindedly at a vase of flowers in the center of the table."

"Mr. Wayne?"

"Hmm?" The man looked up, off-guard, as if he'd forgotten anyone else was at the table.

"Did you see the locomotive engines in Europe?"

"Oh, a few," Mr. Wayne shook his head, kneading his eyebrows. "I'm sorry Tim, I'm afraid I'm a little preoccupied today."

Tim looked around, before leaning in to whisper. "Your thinking about the Riddle Man, aren't you!"

Mr. Wayne grimaced. "Mr. Nygma's own riddles did bring it to mind, yes. But it's nothing you should concern yourself with."

Tim looked down at his hands for a moment, before looking up shyly back at his guardian. "You know, one of the things Mr. Nygma says in his lectures is that vocalizing the equation can help you stumble on the answer."

Mr. Wayne looked at him appraisingly for a moment, smiled just a bit, then rested his gaze on the table in front of him and turned grim again. "His motus operandi seems to have changed," he explained. "The first times he struck, at the Gotham Bank and the museum of natural history, seemed to be focusing on . . . theatrics, on showing off his intelligence But then he launched his abduction of Dr. Hoffman, which could have killed the man. And the room he imprisoned Dr. Quinn in; it might not have done any physically harm, but the tests set for him to escape seemed designed to _mentally_ torture him."

"That is what we have confirmed," Mr. Wayne continued. "But just yesterday, I was informed by Mr. Fox that one of his projects has gone missing from the Wayne Laboratory. A dispersilator he calls it, designed to release vaporous chemicals into the air of a large room. It's being developed for a variety of industrial uses, such as curing meat or tanning leather on a large scale. Fox suspects it was theft."

Tim cocked his head, try to think of a criminal application. "What would the Riddle Man want with that?"

"I don't know," Mr. Wayne shook his head. "I don't even have any proof the Riddle Man did it; but my instincts tell me the timing is too coincidental." He leaned forward, chin resting on his hands. "And now this riddle master has changed the game again; he sent the Gotham police a letter last night, which I believe describes something he _hasn't_ done yet!"

Tim caught himself leaning forward a little, curiosity overcoming his usual fear. "What did it say?"

Still gazing absently ahead, the detective recited the lines he'd memorized by now.

Tireless I work, with a sculptures eyes

But the achievements of others mark my gain

With patience, and the trust it buys

With gentle words I make minds bend

And ask for no reward or prize

But to see light in the eyes of younger men

But when all I'm fed is scorn and spite,

Then discontent becomes my guide

And the great who think themselves so high

Will be measured against the rejects mind

"I can't make sense of it," Mr. Wayne shook his head. "Other than the obvious that he's going to strike again, and that once more the target will be one of the cities elite. Though maybe several of them this time."

"The police have no leads?" Tim would honestly have been rather surprised if they did.

"No," the detective shook his head. "They still seem to be scrutinizing the cities usual gangs and criminals. But I don't see how any of them could be _capable_ of this; let alone why they would want to go after the university."

"Maybe it's someone who used to be in the school." Tim said thoughtfully. "The riddle kinda sounds like a teacher."

When no reply came, he looked up. Mr. Wayne was pale faced and wide eye'd, he looked like a madman with a knife had just stepped out in front of him on the street. Then he straightened, and began scanning the room, eyes moving this way and that as they searched for something they didn't find. "Tim," he said slowly and evenly. "We need to head back to the townhouse."

"What?"

"I'm afraid something has come up," Mr. Wayne had already risen and pushed in his chair. "Come along, now!"

Tim tried to keep the disappointment from his face as he moved to follow. And it looked like the Symposium was just about to start too, with Mr. Nygma stepping up to the podium at the opposite end of the room. Sighing, he turned away and followed Mr. Wayne to the door. Then he noticed the tension in the man's shoulders, the quickness of his stride, and the tight clench of his fist; and the truth hit him like a run-away horse.

Tim quickened his pace, jogging to keep up with his guardian. "He's here, isn't he?" the boy whispered. "The Riddle Man."

Mr. Wayne looked down at him, and after a moments pause he nodded. "If I'm right, he's here, and he's about to strike again." Ignoring the startled valet he took his own coat directly off the rack, then strode through the hurriedly opened door with his ward in tow. Without looking back he plowed through the crowded foyer, shouldering patrons aside with only the barest hint of politeness as he marched right out the front door.

""CAB," Mr. Wayne bellowed down the street, a dollar visible in his waving hand. Tim reached up to tug his coat.

"Didn't you have luggage?"

"Never mind that," Mr. Wayne ushered him into the brougham cab that pulled up, and handed the driver a generous bill while he gave him the address of the Wayne townhouse. "As quick as you can my good man," he instructed before turning back to the building.

Tim leaned out of the un-shuddered window. "You're not coming?"

Glancing warily at the driver, Mr. Wayne leaned in close to whisper to him. "I'm going to stay and take care of things." He said calmly. "I have my spare equipment up in the room, I'll be fine."

"By yourself, against the riddle man?" Tim would rather he called the police, or waited to track the man down _after_ he struck.

"Don't worry about it." His guardian shook his head. "Just get back to Alfred and your brothers and wait for me." And before Tim could respond, he nodded to the driver, who snapped his reigns and sent them rolling off as Mr. Wayne strode back into the hotel.

Tim leaned out the window, watching as his guardian disappeared into the building. He slumped with a sigh, wishing there was something he could do to help, and trying not to wonder what heinous plan the Riddle Man could have for his newest attack.

And as he was gazing aimlessly out the window, something caught his eye. What was that? Leaning out further, his sharp eyes caught sight of something in the alleyway behind the hotel. A team of musclemen, who looked like they'd be more comfortable in the Narrows than in Burnley, were hauling something down the steps of the hotel cellar. It was a wide, heavy looking device; a wide metal drum topped with pipes and valves.

He only caught a gimps of it, but he knew what it had to be. The dispersilator! Did Mr. Wayne know? Surely the device was going to play some part in the Riddle Man's attack. If he didn't know, he had to be warned!

Looking at the driver, who's gaze was focused on the road as they sped away, he stood on the seat to swing one leg out the window, and wobbled precariously as he moved the other out after it. He meant to lower himself down onto the footstand, and from there he could just jump onto the street. It shouldn't hurt too much; _just tuck and roll, like Dick always says_. But then he hesitated as his gaze fell on the rear wheels, which seemed to be rolling much faster now that he was on the outside; and his grip slipped.

He didn't have time to tuck and roll. Instead he hit the cobblestones on his side, and was left sprawling on the road in a gasp of pain. He struggled into an upright position, and became aware of the fact that by some miracle the cab wheel had missed him. The driver kept going, apparently having missed the fact he'd lost his charge, and Tim staggared to his feet under the curious gaze of several onlookers.

With no explanation other than a loud "pardon" he began limping as quick as he could back toward the hotel, brushing dirt off of his waistcoat as he thought about what he should do.

Mr. Wayne might already have figure out _who_ the Riddle Man, but he'd have to search for the device. Maybe if Tim could get to him in time, then The Bat could stop it before anyone was hurt. Another thought struck him; what if someone saw him talk to The Bat, that might make people ask questions. But he'd could deal with that after he _found_ the man.

He was staggering up the hotel stairs now, and had nearly reached the door when it was suddenly thrown open and he was hit by a wave of fleeing patrons. Tim scrambled to avoid being hit by a large bellied man putting up an impressive speed, and then dodge around a shrieking woman clutching her child to her. As it forced it's way out the door, the mob put up many cries of "POLICE" and "MURDER" setting of even more panic in the streets below.

_Too late_ , Tim thought glumly.

After forcing his way through the crowd he reached the hotel lobby. Aside from more guests beginning to evacuate their rooms upstairs, it was now empty except for several staff furiously arguing by the closed doors dining hall. "Never in my years-," one was saying to another, when Tim hurried over and tugged on his coat. "Sir, what is going on?"

The man pushed him away, the normal annoyance of adults being interrupted by children mixed with real, genuine fear on his face. "Off with you boy!" he shouted. "Get out the door quickly now! This whole establishment is being assaulted by a lunatic."

"I don't understand," Tim gave his best innocent-scarred-child impression, which was very easy under the circumstances. He attempted to get around the men and to the door, not sure if his guardian could have managed to reach the dinning room by now. "I must get inside, um, my fathers in there!"

"Then my prayers are with him," One of the other men pulled Tim back from the door, shaking his head. "One of the boffins in there has gone mad. He's killed two men, and had declared he'll kill everyone in the room if even one person gets in or out!"

Tim shook his head, trying to force away the feeling of faintness that was suddenly threatening to overtake him. It wasn't possible, surely their pleasant afternoon couldn't have degenerated so quickly into a killing spree?

"Shove off, if you know what's good for you," the first man pushed him away, as they resumed their argument. Tim obediently turned and ran; but instead of following the stream of fleeing guests out the front door, he forced his way against the tide as he raced up the stairs. On the third floor he squeezed his around a whole family trying to escape while saving their, luggage and reached the room Mr. Wayne had stayed in.

It was locked, and after a pounding the door a few times Tim plucked a hair pin out of his pocket and reached up to jiggle it into the key hole. A few skillful twists, and the door swung open.

The room inside was empty, with one of Mr. Wayne's suitcases left propped open on the bed. _Damnation!_ He'd missed his guardian; and God only knew what the man planned to do about all this.

Tim slumped against the wall and sat down, kneading his fists against his forehead. _What do I do now?_

In spite og himself, he heard professor Nygma's voice in his head. _Identify all the variables, and you can solve the whole problem one step at a time._ What were the variables here? The Riddle Man, whom he couldn't get to. His guardian, whom he couldn't find!

_The machine!_

In an instant Tim was on his feet again, running back down to the first floor. If the dispersilator was important to the attack, then the simplest solution was to destroy it. It must still be in the cellar, being was too big to lifted up any of the stairs indoors, even by the musclemen the Riddle Man had with him.

And as Tim reached the first floor, that thought brought him up short. One of them had probably been left to guard it! He couldn't simply run down the stairs.

He turned then, circling around the stairs to keep out of sight of the staff still arguing outside the dinning hall. He crept behind a beam and checked to make sure their backs were turned, and then on silent feet he darted towards the kitchen door.

He was running through the room before he thought to check if there was anyone their to stop him. Ducking behind low counter when he spotted the staff all gathered around another door, this one leading to the dinning hall.

They had piled up crates and furniture to block the door, but one of the cooks had climbed up to peer through the little window into the hall. "Black as an ink stain," the man was narrating to his companions. "And he came out of nowhere."

"What's the looney doing?" one asked.

"Just standing there with his finger on the button, the same one that killed the other two," came the reply. "Now their talking, I think he's asking The Bat riddles!"

Tim wanted to cry. Mr. Wayne was already in the room, and trapped with a man who would kill him without a second thought! God have mercy!

There! In one corner he spotted what he was looking for. A dumbwaiter sat open in one corner, and if it was anything like the one in Wayne Manor, it would lead down to the cellar.

With one last glance at the spectators, he ran across the room, jumped up to grab the edge, and hauled himself into the narrow lift, closing the door. The platform wobbled a bit under his weight, but it held, and he began pulling on the rope, lowering the mechanism down with unsteady jerks.

He concentrated on pulling the rope, trying not to think about anything else. He hadn't thought about how dark the lift would be, or expected the musty rotten smell of it. Just like living on the streets again. Before long his arms began to ache and burn as he heaved on the rope again and again. He had to be careful to sit straight, or his back would scrape against the side. His nice waistcoat still caught on something sharp, and tore in several places, but he didn't stop. He gasped loudly, trying to breath in the dusty air, and tried to ignore the traitorous thought that he should have stayed in the cab.

Then with a thump the platform reached the bottom of the lift, and he realized he'd come level with the next door without noticing. _Oh jubilation_ , he muscled up, a smile picking the poshest word he could think of.

With a gentle push, Tim slowly opened the dumbwaiter, wincing at the faint creak of it's hinges. The only thing in view was a long rack of wine bottles. Shifting in place he carefully jumped down to the floor, landing lightly on his feet. He crept through the cellar as cautiously as he ever had through the Narrows in the dark of night. He moved slowly, peering around corners to make sure of no lurkers before moving on. Tim listened carefully, expecting to here the whirl and wheeze of a moving machine at any moment. The quiet probably meant it hadn't been activated yet, and that should have been comforting; but Tim thought the silence was somehow oppressive, adding to the claustrophobia of the dank, dark cellar. He'd really been reading Poe a bit _too_ much.

He was so tense with anticipation that when he finally peered around a corner and spied the machine, he nearly jumped out of his skin. It squatted on a pallets, silent and still. A single guard stood by the thing, his back to the shelves Tim was hiding behind, smoking a cigar.

_Alright,_ Tim thought to himself. _I've found the thing, now what?_ He didn't like his chances of taking down the muscle bound guard my himself. _Get the police,_ he told thought. At least a few of them had to have reached the hotel by now.

And then with an ominous _click_ , a green light atop the machine began to glow. With a curse the thug threw away his cigar and grasped a metal bar on the things side. With grunts and groans he began pushing the lever up and down, awakening the machine with a whirl and a hum.

_Too Late!_

Tim looked around desperately, looking for some weapon he could attack the man with. He'd taken on grown men before on the streets (though he'd always had Dick and Jason with him, and even then they tended to avoid men the size of this thug). But the only weapon he saw was a broom sitting against the racks of wine bottles between him an-

_Ah ha_

He threw his shoulder against the rack, kicking his legs against the ground as he pushed with all his might. With a creek the shelves teetered, the wine bottles clinked as they rocked in their slots. But the boy couldn't seem to push it far enough, and as the rack wobbled it threatened to come back on top of him.

Desperately, Tim grasped at a nearby crate of onions, and with strength born of desperation heaved it e few feet toward the rack. He snatched up the broom and jammed the end of it under the lowest shelf, pushing the pole down so it caught on the crate. _Give me a lever big enough and I'll move the world,_ Tim remembered a quote out of the Manor's history books; and throwing all his wait upon it he gave a cry of relief as the shelf finally tipped beyond the point of stability, and came tumbling down upon the thug.

The result was just as satisfying as Tim could have hoped. The shelf toppled with a thunderous crash and a chorus of shattering glass, knocking the man flat. It caught one corner of the machine, which was crushed under it. With a crack a pair of rivets burst from it's sides to bounce off the shelves around, and the open seams leaked trails of white steam.

Panting for breath, Tim surveyed his handiwork. Whatever danger the machine had held, the threat was almost certainly neutralized. That man wasn't getting back up soon (Tim had to force down the worrying thought that he might have accidentally killed him), and the device likely couldn't run with it's controls bent and dented. Wine of every kind was pouring out of broken bottles, covering the floor in multicolored puddles. This would probably end up being a very expensive rescue for the hotel, but Tim had no intention of taking credit for it in any case.

With the adrenaline draining out of him, Tim shuffled toward the first staircase he could find. It turned out to be the main cellar door leading out to the alley way, but he was more than ready to be out of this building entirely. The boy blinked against the bright daylight as he pushed the door open, finding the bitter but familiar smells of a Gotham alleyway to actually be comforting.

But a cart still sat waiting in the alleyway, it's driver engaged in a heated argument with a policeman. "Cordoning off the entire building," the copper was saying, when both the men noticed the cellar door creeping open. Tim darted back behind it, wondering how he was going to explain all this, when some kind of explosion went off in the dining hall above him.

It wasn't a very powerful explosion, and rather than a loud crack the sound was a dull thump. The cart driver took this as an opportunity; dipping a hand into his pocket he brought it back out with a brass knuckle slipped on an laid the policeman out with a right hook. A back door burst open above Tim, and pillars of black smoke spilled out. A man came running out, coughing heavily. "Now _cough_ damnation he's right _cough_ behind me!"

Tim knew that voice, and his mouth went slack, as the pieces all fell into place. _A teacher. No, no it couldn't be!_

Not the same professor who turn a mathematical equation into a joke even Jason could get. Not the man who never grew impatient, even when a student simply couldn't find the answer he wanted.

And the same man who had a score to settle with the Gotham University board, the man who was a close personal friend of Mr Fox, and so might o about the secret projects of Wayne Enterprises. Tim knew he was right, even before he could see the professor through the crack in the door. He still didn't want to believe it.

As he watched, Mr. Nygma hopped tentatively over the fallen lawman, and climbed into the cart." Damned costumed bedlamite," he shouted. "We'll have to leave the others, and make our escape forthwith!"

_I should do something,_ Tim thought. _If he gets away he'll strike again, and now he has a grudge against the Bat!_ But he didn't know what he could do now, or even _if_ he could bring himself to directly confront the man.

But before either Tim or the villianous professor could act, an odd bat-shaped boomerang came spinning through the air to strike the driver, knocking him to the cobblestones. There was a rustle of heavy fabric from the door above, and in one leap the Bat landed on top of the cart, and seized his surprised prey by the lapels.

"I'm afraid the Gotham Police would like a moment of your time Mr. Nygma," There was more gravel to Mr. Wayne's voice than normal; ever since Miss Kyle had figured out his identity, he made more of an effort to hide it.

"Damn you," Nygma spat at him. "You'll regret this you self-righteous quack! Good help me you'll regre-"

He was cut off by a single blow from the Bat's right hand, and he laid the professor gently on the back of the chart. The vigilante jumped down, and appeared about to call for the police, when his sharp eyes spied the cracked open cellar door, and his ward inside.

"TIM!?"

The boy sheepishly stumbled out into the alley. "Sorry Mr. Wayne."

The masked man took in the boy's disheveled appearance and the open cellar door, and Tim could almost see the clockwork click together in his mind. "I told you to get out of here!"

"T-the the dispersilator," Tim hurried to explain. "I saw them loading it, and I tried to warn you; but, but you were already gone and . . ."

"You disabled the machine then," Mr. Wayne wasn't really asking.

"YOU THERE," a policeman on the street had spotted them, an advanced with his club. "Hold there, and do not mov-"

Before he had even stepped into the alley, Mr. Wayne snatched Tim up inside his cloak; and with the _snap whirl_ of his grappling hook they were rising up to the rooftops. Tim would have expected the rush of wind and the empty air beneath his feet to be terrifying; but he felt safer here, in his guardians grip, than he had all afternoon.

* * *

Mr. Pennyworth blew gently on the steaming cup of hot chocolate, and set it down on the lampstand. "Here you are Master Tim, fresh ground with just a dab of milk."

Leaning forward from where he'd been sagging in the cushy armchair, Tim picked it up and sipped it cautiously, mumbling his thanks.

"So, is Mr. Wayne gonna make you a bat suit himself," Jason grinned as he leaned against the arm rest on his other side. "Or does he have a special tailor on the roll for those?"

"Shove it," his younger brother replied. "You wouldn't be jokin if you'd been the one who was almost trapped in a room with a maniac."

"Would too," his brother grinned. "But seriously little Timmy, you might have a future in this crime fightin business."

"Jason might be a pain," Dick elbowed the red head in the ribs, "but he ain't wrong this time. We've been meanin to talk to Mr. Wayne soon, about us doing somethin to help the Bat. You thought about joinin us?"

"I don't think I want to," Tim shook his head. "I didn't even actually _fight_ anybody; I just snuck around like a rat back on the street again."

"Still sounds like a lot more fun than I would imagine at one of those boffin laudydaus," Jason said. "Maybe I should go with you to the next symphanium."

"Symposium."

"Whatever," the boy shrugged. "Still can't believe professor Nygma turned barmy! Always said though, there was somethin wrong with him."

"Yah never did," Dick retorted, and before their bickering could continue there was a knock at the door. Mr. Wayne entered, his face tired and worried, but it had a genuine smile when he saw them all. "Boys," he nodded. "Give me a moment alone with Tim, would you?"

"Shall I put some tea in the kettle for you sir?" Alfred asked as he followed Jason and Dick out.

"That would be wonderful Alfred," the man nodded. "But be sure to take your time about it."

With the room now empty except for the two of them, Mr Wayne grabbed another chair and pulled it over to sit directly across from his ward. "Are you alright Tim?"

"Yay," the boy put down his hot chocolate. "I ain't-do not have anything more than a few crapes and bruises." He felt anxious and wanted to fidget. He knew he'd helped, but he'd also disobeyed a direct order from his guardian. He tried to gage Mr. Wayne's mood, but the man was as expressive as a gargoyle.

"Did, did you square things up with the coppers then?" Mr. Wayne had gone right out again after he dropped Tim at the townhouse, to make sure there were no loose ends with the Riddle Man case.

"I don't exactly have debriefings at Gotham Central," his lips might have twitched into a slight smile. "But I have confirmed that the police have Nygma safely in custody, and ample evidence to bring him to trial presently."

Tim almost didn't want to ask. "What happened when you went after him?"

His guardian was silent for a moment, before answering. "Immediately after we left, Nygma announced to the room about the dispersilator in the cellar and that he was able to trigger it with a small wired transmission he'd fitted to the speaker's podium. Having informed everyone that they were being held hostage, and would all be killed if even one tried to escape, he declared he would let them all go if any of the other university board present could solve a series of riddles he'd devised."

Mr. Wayne leaned back in his chair. "That was what ultimately drove the man, he wanted to humiliate the people he believed had wronged him, and prove his own superior intelligence in front of them all. He had smaller samples of the gas attached beneath the board members seats, and had activated two of them when they failed to give the right answers, by he time I arrived. With the doors all locked, I came in rather violently through one of the windows."

Tim had seen The Bat make an entrance, and could well imagine. "So you fought Nygma?"

"No exactly," Mr. Wayne shook his head. "I couldn't go near him while he had his finger on the button; so I had to challenged him to his own game, and started answering his riddles. My appearance was not a factor he'd counted on in crafting his plan, and he was disor-"

"You mean, you figured them all?" Tim knew Mr. Wayne was a smart man, but that was surprising.

"Yes," his guardian replied simply, and without a bit of boast in his tone. "Some took a minute or two, but it seemed to be more of a challenge than Nygma had been expecting. He grew angry, and I began to think I could lure him away from the podium. But I was overconfident," he shook his head. "And when Nygma reached his limit, he pushed the button instead. Thankfully, by this time, you had already dealt with the dispersilator. With no other resource, he activated a smoke bomb under his podium, and made his attempt to escape."

Tim nodded, and finally had to ask, "So how many people did prof . . . how many people were killed."

"I have some rather good news actually," Mr. Wayne said. "There were no fatalities."

Tim looked up in surprise. "But, but, the gas?"

"It was never actually deadly. Analysis by the police have determined it was actually a strong sedative that induced a state of very convincing unconsciousness. Nygma simply used the threat of it to keep a grip on his victims, and felt the terror of the experience was an appropriate punishment."

Tim sighed, a part of him relieved, in spite of everything. "I knew Mr. Nygma wasn't no murderer."

"Maybe not," Mr. Wayne was looking off to the side, gazing at nothing in particular as he frowned in thought. "But he is a troubled man. Even if no one died, people were hurt by his actions. When someone decides that inflicting unneeded pain is acceptable . . . all too often it's only a matter of time until they go even further." The man was quiet for a moment, before looking back up at his ward and trying a smile.

"I want you to know Tim, that I'm no angry with you," the man reassured. "Though I do expect you to listen better in the future, you showed better judgement then I did tonight,"

Tim looked up in surprise. "How?"

"Had that gas actually been a poison," his guardian explained. "It would have killed everyone in that room before I could have stopped it." He shook his head. "I had already deduced that the machine would be used to attack the symposium somehow, but I decided not to follow that lead. I was focused solely on confronting Nygma, and assumed that would bring the surest end to the danger. Your method was better."

Tim shook his head. "I only knew to go after the machine cause I happened to see it, I just got lucky."

"No," Mr. Wayne insisted. "You _acted_ on your luck; there are many people who would not go that far, particularly in Gotham."

Tim shrugged. "It didn't matter in the end, no one was actually in danger."

"I would have been paralyzed by that gas also," Mr. Wayne countered. "Not only would Nygma have escaped to possibly continue his descent into crime; but when the police arrived, I would have been exposed as the Bat."

Tim jolted in alarm, he hadn't considered that!  
"So whatever you think you accomplished tonight," the man continued. "I'm personally very grateful.

"Thanks Mr. Wayne," The boy sank a little further into the chair, rubbing a palm to one eye. "Can I go to bed now?"

**So how obvious is it that this was my first time trying to write riddles? Since Gotham By Gaslight seems to take a new but still recognizable take on a lot of it's characters, I thought it would be fine to tweek the Riddler's backstory a bit; something I plan to do with more of the classic villains coming up. Please tell me what you think in REVIEWS!**


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